Every Day Quotes February
by MissJayne
Summary: A series of oneshots and drabbles about our favourite characters.  One quote per day.
1. Feb 1

Every Day Quotes: February

_**Feb 1  
><strong>_The wit makes fun of other persons; the satirist makes fun of the world; the humorist makes fun of himself, but in so doing, he identifies himself with people-that is, people everywhere, not for the purpose of taking them apart, but simply revealing their true nature.  
><strong>James Thurber<strong>** (1894 - 1961)**

Anthony DiNozzo enjoyed being a clown. It was not only highly amusing, but it meant he did not have to deal with the pain inside him.

Today was a good day. No active case and Ziva had reported Gibbs to be stuck in a massive queue at the coffee shop after the machine had broken down. _El jefe _could not even dream of finding another supplier and hence would be gone for a while. Everyone was taking advantage; the Probie had vanished into the domain of the Goth, while Ziva had decided to call on Jenny and discuss girly things. Tony was hoping for secret feminine rituals rather than a conversation about shoes.

What to do? He had three empty desks to play with; he could always blame the Israeli for anything that mysteriously happened to the Boss' desk. Which was an idea…

Double checking that no one was around to witness him, he stood up and made his way over. He could sign Gibbs up to various porn websites, except he never checked his email. The computer was out.

Superglue. Tony glanced around. The desk drawers. Gibbs always yanked them open.

Due to rather a few unfortunate pranks, Gibbs no longer allowed them to have superglue. However, he kept his own stash in a desk drawer. It did not take long to apply the glue and close the drawers –

"DiNozzo."

He turned around slowly, superglue still in his hand, to find Gibbs standing behind him with a fresh cup of coffee. "This isn't what it looks like," he began.


	2. Feb 2

_**Feb 2  
><strong>_All wars are civil wars, because all men are brothers.  
><strong>Francois de Fenelon<strong>** (1651 - 1715)**

Tobias Fornell was pretty sure that the squad room at NCIS was empty. Not because he had looked around – he was a little pre-occupied for that – but because he and Gibbs were currently yelling at each other.

It wasn't his fault. Really. Two dead marines in different states made the case federal, regardless of the protests from NCIS. Gibbs might have a good, albeit insane, team and a high solve rate, but the FBI had capabilities their cousins could only dream about. More agents, more equipment, and, although he would never dare say it anywhere within possible earshot of Gibbs, better forensic facilities.

"My Director told your Director –" he began again, only to be cut off by an irate Gibbs.

"Your Director can stick it where the sun don't shine, and that's exactly what Director Shepard told him."

"Our jurisdiction –"

"Marines."

"Across state lines –"

"_Marines_."

"That doesn't change the law," Fornell exploded. "Our case."

"Then why are our Directors fighting over it?" Gibbs questioned. "It's clearly an NCIS investigation. We started it and we're not handing it over."

"We'll get the case so you might as well co-operate."

"You get this case, Fornell, and so help me I'll stick my boot so far up your –"

Someone either brave or insane (or possibly both) cleared their throat behind him and both men turned to the newcomer, ready to vent.

"Director." They greeted her together, currently in synch. From the look on her face, Fornell suspected he was about to be ejected from the building. Forcibly.


	3. Feb 3

_**Feb 3  
><strong>_Hope is the thing with feathers  
>That perches in the soul.<br>And sings the tune  
>Without the words,<br>and never stops at all.  
><strong>Emily Dickinson<strong>** (1830 - 1886)**

"Gibbs! Get in here!"

Abby Scuito knew it was never a good idea to yell at her boss. Not that he really was her boss because in theory she answered only to the Director – not that she'd ever yell at Mommy, but it was how the world seemed to work and she was happy to go along with it. Yelling frantically at Gibbs could be dangerous, though not for her. He saw her as his favorite and would do anything to keep her safe. Up to and including shooting anyone who was causing her trouble.

She was not surprised when the agent in question barreled through the door to her lab, gun drawn and completely ready to tackle any intruder. She let him scan the room for threats before pointing at the bird on the floor.

"He'll contaminate evidence," she informed him. "And McGee would only suggest killing him."

He shot her a look of both frustration and amusement, holstering his gun and staring at the pigeon. "How'd it get in here, Abs?" he asked, not needing to agree to help her. They knew each other too well for him to walk away.

"Don't know," she answered. "Guess he could have come up the stairs."

"You leave a window open?" he suggested.

She tutted, handing him a net she'd made to trap the pigeon. "My windows have never opened," she reminded him.

They spent a good half hour chasing the bird around the lab, Gibbs with the net and Abby alternately shrieking whenever it flew at her and protecting her precious equipment. But with teamwork, they caught the poor creature.

She kissed Gibbs' cheek as he left and he handed back the net before leaving to release the bird into the great outdoors. Abby beamed. She knew who to call the next time she found a spider.


	4. Feb 4

_**Feb 4  
><strong>_If you pray for rain, be prepared to deal with some mud.  
><strong>Mary Englebreit<strong>

Anthony DiNozzo did not like nature. He could not understand why people who lived in cities paid insane amounts of money to go out to a field in the middle of nowhere with no cell service to 'get close to nature'. Nature was filthy, smelly and disgusting. There was a reason the human race created cities.

The crime scene was horrible. A field in the middle of nowhere. A field ploughed the day before by a farmer. A dead Petty Officer slap bang in the middle of said field, probably killed at some point in the night. And a massive rainstorm that had literally stopped as their cars had pulled up on the edge of the field.

Long story short: a _lot _of mud.

Squelchy, smelly, cover every surface and never come out again, _deep_ mud.

"My best gray suit," he grumbled, carrying several cases full of vital equipment across the mud, his feet disappearing into the brown substance with every step. "And my new shoes. My dry cleaner's going to hate me."

Mysteriously mud-free, Ziva walked alongside him with an extra case, seemingly unconcerned by the weight. "Poor McGee," she commented, completely ignoring him. "Breaking an arm."

Tony did not feel an ounce of sympathy for the Probie. "Should have waited for back-up," he grumbled, aware she would kill him if _he_ ignored _her_.

She glared at him. "He tackled a terrorist while unarmed."

"Still should have waited for back-up."

Tony yelped as he suddenly sank into mud up to his knee. Ziva smirked and left him to it. "I hate nature," Tony repeated.


	5. Feb 5

_**Feb 5 – **__continuation of Feb 4  
><em>I will go further, and assert that nature without culture can often do more to deserve praise than culture without nature.  
><strong>Cicero<strong>** (106 BC - 43 BC)**

Ziva David loved nature. Populated areas meant she had to be permanently on guard, alert to anything and everything. But away from the hustle and bustle of cities, she could relax a little, focus more on the mission objective. She enjoyed the silence, the gentle sounds, the peacefulness.

Two bodies in two days. She had not minded the field full of mud; it was not like sand, which could get everywhere and was impossible to get rid of completely. An uncultivated field, with grass taller than she was on the other hand…

Grass itched. As did weeds. It was like forcing her way through dense brush without a machete. The buzz of various flying insects irritated her; she had no idea where they were. She could not see a thing and had no idea where she was going.

She crashed into the back of Tony. "Stop smirking," she ordered, not needing to see his face. They really had been working together for too long. "I will take photographs and then leave you to sketch."

"Bet you can't find your way out of here, David," he teased.

"The cars are north," she told him, pocketing his compass so he couldn't cheat his way out. "But I would suggest heading a bit to the east to avoid the –"

"You'll both be walking back if you don't hurry up," Gibbs warned, sipping his coffee.

Ziva stuck her tongue out at her partner before starting her work. At least he had ruined his suit yesterday.


	6. Feb 6

_A/N: Massive thanks to Kelly for keeping the updates going while I was on vacation with very spotty wifi._

_**Feb 6  
><strong>_Words are the litmus paper of the minds. If you find yourself in the power of someone who will use the word "commence" in cold blood, go somewhere else very quickly. But if they say "Enter", don't stop to pack.  
><strong>Terry Pratchett<strong>, _Small Gods_

Leroy Jethro Gibbs was not afraid of heights. As a sniper in the Corps, he had found himself sitting on top of a fair few heights. What he did mind was standing atop a high ledge with someone else who was prepared to jump.

Truth be told, he was well-equipped to talk a man down. It didn't matter that he was persuasive; what mattered was he knew what was going through someone's mind. The despair. The belief this was the only way out. How much a willing ear helped. A spark of hope made all the difference.

And so he stood on the ledge, privately reminding himself not to look down, attempting to strike up a friendly, non-threatening conversation with the desperate man next to him. Engage him, gain his trust. Avoid the topic of whatever had led him to this point for the moment. Plenty of time for that later.

He knew the routine, although he tried not to think of it as that; everyone was different. Help the man to realize this wasn't his only option. Keep listening. Calmly suggest discussing this somewhere else. Even when they were off the ledge, stay with him. Make sure he got the help he so badly needed.

He was glad to have had help himself. To see how far he had come since those dark days was sometimes scary, but he was glad to be alive. Hopefully he could help this poor soul.


	7. Feb 7

_**Feb 7  
><strong>_Ask questions from your heart and you will be answered from the heart.  
><strong>Omaha Proverb<strong>

Donald Mallard adored Miss Scuito. A perfect combination of a brilliant mind, endless enthusiasm and a wide-eyed innocent view of the world. He worked closely with the young Goth and enjoyed their conversations. Two scientific minds melding for the purpose of justice.

Despite the darkness she worked with every day, despite her seemingly dark outward demeanor, she was still an innocent at heart. While most agents developed an armor to deal with the horrors, Abigail found a macabre wisdom in her work, while the worst cases still upset her greatly. She had a big heart and found it difficult to see fault in anyone.

They were sitting together in Autopsy, most of the Navy Yard deserted at this time of night. But homicide did not keep regular hours and as such she had been acting as his temporary assistant.

"Why would anybody want to hurt someone else?" Abigail's voice broke the comfortable silence that had settled over them.

"For a great many reasons," he replied softly. "Although none that have ever made sense to me."

She nodded in acceptance, before gazing again at the young man on the table in front of them. Shaking her head, she gathered her samples and left for her lab. Ducky watched her go, dismayed that he could not have given her a better answer but content he had spoken from the heart.


	8. Feb 8

_**Feb 8  
><strong>_Beware of the man whose God is in the skies.  
><strong>George Bernard Shaw<strong>** (1856 - 1950)**, _Man and Superman (1903) "Maxims for Revolutionists"_

Tony DiNozzo did not like it when his partner disappeared off to Israel. At least she was only seeing her family, which allowed his mind to wonder exactly what she was getting up to. He imagined Great Aunts wrestling with her and Great Uncles taking her on twenty mile runs.

Ziva did not talk much about her family and he knew better than to pry – there was a reason he didn't talk about _his _family after all. But he still wished to show his support and that was the reason he was sitting at Dulles airport, watching the planes land and trying to guess which one she was on. It was late, whichever plane it was. He'd already drunk two cups of something hideously overpriced and masquerading as coffee.

His week had not been good. Gibbs' favorite coffee shop had gone bust (Tony couldn't understand why – surely Gibbs alone was keeping them in the black with all he drank?) and the boss was in a foul mood while searching for another decent caffeine supplier. And bantering with McGee wasn't the same as with Ziva. Coupled with a triple homicide, all children, and he was left wishing he had gone to Israel too.

"What are you doing?"

He spun around to see his partner standing behind him. "Waiting for you," he answered honestly.

She looked sharply at him for a moment. "I am capable of carrying my own bags."

"I know." He also knew exactly when this argument was going to go, but he fell into the familiar routine, comfortable at last.


	9. Feb 9

_**Feb 9  
><strong>_Think like a man of action, act like a man of thought.  
><strong>Henri Bergson<strong>** (1859 - 1941)**

Timothy McGee was more nervous than usual as he stepped off the elevator into the squad room. It was not because Tony had spilled Gibbs' coffee that morning and the boss had yet to calm down from 'homicidal' to 'bear with sore head'. It was not because Ziva had accidently pranged the Director's car in the parking garage and war had been declared. It was not even because Abby had pulled an all-nighter and drunk too much Caf-Pow! for her own good.

He made it to his desk without incident and placed the precious box to one side. Perhaps it would be best if he pretended the box was nothing special. He reached for his keyboard to check his emails –

"What's this?" Tony demanded, snatching the box off the edge of the desk and shaking it.

Tim jumped up from his seat. "Give that back," he ordered, reaching out for it.

Tony simply threw it in Ziva's general direction. The Mossad Officer caught it easily and opened it. "Dolls," she answered. "Of… us?"

Tony's eyebrows shot up and Tim rushed to correct her. "Action figurines," he told them. "Of my _Deep Six _characters."

"You mean us," Ziva corrected, holding up 'Lisa' and examining her in the light. "Does my nose really look like that?"

"You gave them photos of us," Tony accused, rummaging through the box for 'Tommy'. "Oh, not bad." He examined his in much the same way Ziva continued to examine hers.

"Can I have those back?" Tim asked, knowing it was fruitless. "They're prototypes."

Tony and Ziva looked at each other as the same idea hit them simultaneously. "Gibbs!" Tony exclaimed as Ziva announced "Tibbs!"

Tim groaned as they dived back into the box. He could only hope the man in question stayed away.


	10. Feb 10

_**Feb 10  
><strong>_People don't have to like or support you, so you always have to say thank you.  
><strong>Ruben Studdard<strong>, _Seventeen Magazine, September 2003_

Ziva David glared at the printer as it ever so slowly attempted to print the last few pages of her report. The 'replace toner now!' button flashed dangerously and she bit back a curse. She just needed it to co-operate for a moment longer…

As usual, it was Tony's fault. Despite Gibbs' issues with technology, only Tony could manage to accidently print every single one of his emails for the last six months. Luckily McGee had not been around or he would have been yelling at Tony. Ziva did not want her headache to get any worse.

It had been a paperwork day. Sometimes it was nice when people were not killing each other, but occasionally she longed for a spree killing or serial killer. Especially when Tony overdosed on sugar. He really was like a small child at times.

Her partner had thankfully disappeared, hopefully having finished his paperwork – Gibbs had ordered no one to leave until all their recent cases were written up and on his desk. She just had to print this darn report, sign it multiple times and dump it somewhere Gibbs would find before she would be free.

Finally finished, she grabbed her rucksack and hurried to the elevator before Gibbs could appear and find something else for her to do. The doors were closing as she made a run for it…

A hand reached out from inside the elevator and held the doors open just enough for her to slip through. "Tony. Toda."

"Why are you thanking me?" he asked, confused. "It's common courtesy."

She shook her head in frustration and they continued their journey in a comfortable silence.


	11. Feb 11

_**Feb 11  
><strong>_A vision without action is called a daydream; but then again, action without a vision is called a nightmare.  
><strong>Jim Sorensen<strong>

Abigail Scuito adored Jethro Gibbs. It was an indisputable fact, like the existence of gravity. He was kind, smart, gentle and always willing to listen to anything she wished to confide in him. And he adored her too.

She could never understand why his team were so nervous around him. Well, she sort of could because she knew he could growl, but she was the favorite and he would never snap at her. There would have to be a really really good reason, like her making a serious error with evidence, which she would never do because she knew exactly what she was doing.

Tony had summoned her to the squad room. Not because Rule 38 was in effect, but because Gibbs was in a foul mood and it was hoped she could calm him down. Luckily she hadn't had to do anything – _el jefe _was asleep.

It had been a bad case (a little girl kidnapped from her bed) and Gibbs had kept them up for three days straight. He deserved sleep after returning the girl to her parents.

But he was having a nightmare. At least she assumed it was a nightmare – his eyes didn't usually move about like that underneath his eyelids. She wanted to let him sleep, but she also wanted to wake him up and scare away whatever beast could worry Leroy Jethro Gibbs.

Tony made the decision for her by accidently stapling his finger. His loud yelp of pain followed by a long series of curses turned every head in the squad room.

She smiled sweetly at Gibbs. "I need to test a sample of fresh coffee. Would you care to escort me to the nearest coffee shop?"


	12. Feb 12

_**Feb 12  
><strong>_Action is at bottom a swinging and flailing of the arms to regain one's balance and keep afloat.  
><strong>Eric Hoffer<strong>** (1902 - 1983)**

"TONY!"

Timothy McGee knew it was not a good idea to waste so much breath, but the man was taking his sweet time. And it wasn't exactly _his_ fault.

Why Gibbs had sent them in search of the knife in the first place was a complete mystery. The river was easily six foot deep and only divers would be able to locate and bring up the missing murder weapon. But the boss had insisted they walk alongside the river and keep their eyes open.

Tim had actually spotted something suspiciously glinting at the bottom. Tony, being Tony, had simply shoved him into the water to retrieve it. Unfortunately, the water was too deep and the sides were too steep to climb out easily. And the 'something suspicious' had turned out to be a traffic cone somehow shining in the midday sun.

Ideally they needed a rope to pull him out, but the car was a ten minute run away and McGee wasn't a strong swimmer. So Tony was supposed to be looking for some kind of buoyancy aid. Tim was starting to suspect Tony had gone back to the car.

"MCGEE!"

Tony charged back into sight and threw a lifepreserverinto the water, completely missing Tim. He would have rolled his eyes, but he needed all his energy to swim the few strokes to the ring.

"Hang on!" Tony urged him. "I'll get the car. You can't drown – Abby will kill me."


	13. Feb 13

_**Feb 13  
><strong>_Go after a man's weakness, and never, ever, threaten unless you're going to follow through, because if you don't, the next time you won't be taken seriously.  
><strong>Roy M. Cohn<strong>** (1927 - 1986)**

Jennifer Shepard enjoyed spending time in Interrogation. Despite being Director, it was good to leave the paperwork and ass-kissing for a while and do what she enjoyed most.

Scaring the living daylights out of suspects.

Granted, her partner in crime was probably more terrifying than she was – female, five foot five in her stockings, redhead. But having a six foot ex-marine who looked homicidal next to her helped a lot.

And they worked well together. They'd learnt the ropes as Boss and Probie, mastered the teamwork as partners and still remained an excellent pair. Jethro looked menacing; she appeared softer. What Jethro couldn't necessarily articulate, she could express. They didn't need words to communicate with each other, something else that worked well for them.

Jethro's suspect, Private McKellan, looked suitably terrified. She had to smother a smile – he had probably killed three other Marines and they needed a confession. Preferably before Jethro snapped and killed the man with his bare hands or Observation filled up completely. For some reason, everyone liked to watch her and Jethro break a suspect together.

"How much brig time is he looking at, Special Agent Gibbs?" she asked, looking anything but innocent.

"Twenty five to life," he told her. "Times three. And that's if they don't want to stick a needle in him."

"Whoa!" the Private protested. "Hang on a minute. I've got an alibi!"

Jenny knew he was lying. It wouldn't be long now…


	14. Feb 14

_**Feb 14  
><strong>_The first step to getting the things you want out of life is this: Decide what you want.  
><strong>Ben Stein<strong>

Leroy Jethro Gibbs knew exactly what he wanted from life. Plenty of coffee and time with his boat. Anything else was a bonus.

Once upon a time, he had wanted totally different things. He'd had a family. Everything he'd wanted had revolved around them – time together, for him to return safely from wherever he was sent, for them to be happy.

When they had gone, he had struggled to want anything except to see them again. For years, he had not been able to see any light, any future. But he had gradually climbed out of the hole and decided he wanted new things. To make his family proud. To find a way to be as happy as he knew they would want him to be.

Nothing in life is ever easy – he had learned that lesson at a young age. But knowing what he wanted was a step in the right direction. He worked hard at his job. He had tried hard to love again, but failed miserably as a husband. Yet still, in his mind's eye, he could see Shannon and Kelly smiling at him, pleased he was making an effort, happy that he was enjoying himself. He could hear Shannon sighing every time he signed another set of divorce papers.

Now, he was content with his life. He was never getting married again – not when it always led to an alimony check. But now he had his team, his _friends_, around him. He did a worthwhile job, making a difference every day. He would always miss them, but he would carry on. And get everything he wanted out of life.


	15. Feb 15

_**Feb 15  
><strong>_The weirder you are going to behave, the more normal you should look. It works in reverse, too. When I see a kid with three or four rings in his nose, I know there is absolutely nothing extraordinary about that person.  
><strong>P. J. O'Rourke<strong>** (1947 - )**

Jimmy Palmer had always been aware that he worked with some incredibly odd people.

Like Abby. The happiest Goth he'd ever met (in Tony's words). Dark clothes, tiny skirts, dog collars, platform boots and ponytails. Obsessed with death and dying. Owner of a stuffed farting hippo that she dressed in a dog collar and carried virtually everywhere. She had even been known to place ear defenders and safety goggles on him when she worked in the ballistics lab.

Yet inside, she was nothing like her outward persona. Capable of great love and friendship, loyal, full of boundless enthusiasm, able to find the positive in every situation. She felt everyone's pain as her own and despite her mild obsession with death, she grieved more than everyone else put together.

Ziva was very different. Crazy Mossad ninja chick (in Tony's words again), completely unfeminine on the outside. Practical in both her clothes and shoes, with pockets full of useful implements and instruments of death. Someone who could stand up to Agent Gibbs and survive.

Despite her ice cold exterior and her attempts to hide it, she had a soft heart. She defended her friends and would do so to the death if necessary. Although she struggled with providing comfort, she knew when someone required comfort and would not run away if asked to stay. It was hard to imagine the Mossad assassin believing in true love and soulmates, but he knew she did.

Palmer really did work with some strange people, but he wouldn't change it for the world.


	16. Feb 16

_**Feb 16  
><strong>_Absence, with all its pains, is, by this charming moment, wiped away.  
><strong>James Thomson<strong>

Leroy Jethro Gibbs tapped his foot and looked at his watch.

He refused to admit he was nervous. As far as he was concerned, the Director's flight being delayed only affected him on a professional level – he had been tasked with ensuring she arrived in one piece and made it back to her townhouse in the same state. It being late simply meant he had longer to wait and had time to worry about something being wrong.

Personally it was a different matter. He had missed her, despite his efforts to pretend he hadn't. His team had borne the brunt of his frustration, and only Abby had been brave enough to order him to call 'Mommy' to reassure himself that she was okay. He would never admit to counting down the hours until she returned and insisting he collect her from the airport.

He smiled as he saw her red hair make its way through the crowd. In spite of her impossibly high heels, he could only make out her halo of hair until she was almost on top of him, but apparently she had been able to see him as she navigated her way through the throng.

It was good to see her again, good to know for sure she was safe. She smiled at him, seemingly slightly bemused by his still present grin.

Without saying anything, he took the bag from her hand and guided her towards the exit from this hellhole.

"How was the flight?"


	17. Feb 17

_**Feb 17  
><strong>_We cannot meet 21st Century challenges with a 20th Century bureaucracy.  
><strong>Barack Obama<strong>** (1961 - )**, _Nomination Acceptance Speech, 08-28-08_

Jennifer Shepard hated paperwork.

It was the bane of her life. So much effort and time wasted on something that was either pointless, covering someone's backside or would never be read again. And it involved everyone, from the agent who wrote the report in the first place, to the numerous people who had to check it.

She understood why it was important; she just felt there was too much of it. Filling out a form to order pens was one thing: filling out three forms to explain why they needed the pens, another one to explain why they couldn't cut back on pens, yet another one to assure someone somewhere she had thought of the health and safety risks of having pens in the Navy Yard (she had always wondered what they would say if she noted how much stationery could be used as a murder weapon by a certain Israeli), and then two more to say how she planned to dispose of these pens was simply overkill.

She doubted much of it was ever read again. All she knew was that for some insane reason, her days were taken up with mountains of paper when she wasn't in a meeting (which she usually had to record afterwards on even more paper).

Sighing, she reached over and picked up the next folder on her desk. A report. Goody.

Titled: _How to reduce paperwork_.

She decided to read it. After all, she could always make notes on it on why she wasn't allowed to reduce her paperwork, no matter what one report said.


	18. Feb 18

_**Feb 18  
><strong>_The future is no place to place your better days.  
><strong>Dave Matthews<strong>

Ducky hummed to himself as he worked in the morgue. The acoustics down here really were excellent.

He was alone for once, if he didn't count PFC Patel. Mr. Palmer had had an unfortunate accident with a hairdryer and would be discharged from the hospital shortly if he continued his good recovery. Rather than train a new student for a few weeks, Ducky had decided to continue on his own. It took him a little longer than usual and he found he missed the companionship, but things would return to normal before long.

"Ah, my dear fellow," he addressed his latest guest as he rummaged through his intestines. "I suspect you are one of those men who believes he is invincible."

He hummed a few more verses of his tune while he hunted for his scalpel. There was a section he wished to examine in more detail.

"Yes, one of those men who live for the future, placing all your hopes and desires in those days. While this may seem admirable, I have unfortunately found it usually leads to regret. Living for the moment has its advantages; living as though every day is your last. You only have one life – you should grasp every opportunity for happiness you get."

He stared at the excised section of small intestine in his hand, his previous train of thought gone.

"I need to call Jethro," he spoke to himself. "He is going to find this _fascinating_."


	19. Feb 19

_**Feb 19  
><strong>_To enjoy the things we ought and to hate the things we ought has the greatest bearing on excellence of character.  
><strong>Aristotle<strong>** (384 BC - 322 BC)**, _Nichomachean Ethics_

"Tony!"

Anthony DiNozzo smiled as a black blur attacked him. Some days Abby needed to lay off the Caf-Pow!

He allowed her to strangle him, only breaking away when he felt he was about to faint. She beamed at him, clearly delighted he had decided to enter her domain.

"When did Gibbs allow you to escape?" she asked, tugging him over to her workstation.

"We haven't got a case and he went up to Jenny's office with two coffees," he explained.

She smirked this time. "She'll keep him occupied."

"Naturally."

He loved spending his free time with Abby. She always knew how to make a bad day good and a good day even better. She would listen to anything he told her, not matter how trivial, and happily discuss the latest scuttlebutt. Sometimes it was useful to have almost every Agent in the Navy Yard go to one lab to collect information.

"Did you hear about Agent Wofford? Another commendation for bravery," Abby informed him.

"Pulled a kid out of a burning house?" he vaguely recalled.

"That's the one," Abby agreed. She shoved a chair at him and he gratefully sat down to watch her prepare what looked like a sample of blood. He hoped the person was still alive. "You just missed Agent Smullen – she was telling me about the cat she dived into the Anacostia to rescue yesterday."

"Really?" He wasn't sure how he'd missed hearing about this.

Abby smiled sweetly. "I'll tell you all the details," she promised.


	20. Feb 20

_**Feb 20  
><strong>_The key to every man is his thought. Sturdy and defying though he look, he has a helm which he obeys, which is the idea after which all his facts are classified. He can only be reformed by showing him a new idea which commands his own.  
><strong>Ralph Waldo Emerson<strong>** (1803 - 1882)**

Ziva David observed McGee in silence. The rest of the squad room was empty – few people were insane enough to arrive early to work on a Monday morning.

They were not the only ones in the building. Gibbs insisted on early starts; something Ziva thoroughly approved of, even though he did not go as far as Mossad and start at zero-five-hundred. The early owl caught the worm, as the saying went. However, Gibbs had already run out of coffee and had set off to find his supplier, and Tony was taking advantage of the lack of an active case to disappear in search of food.

Which left her with McGee, who was staring at a notepad on his desk with a look of utter despair on his face.

"What is the problem?" she asked.

He started, looking up as though he had forgotten she was there. "Oh, nothing. I'm fine."

She stood up and crossed the squad room. "I can help," she offered, aware it was not the complete truth. But he was more likely to tell her what the problem was so she could start breaking legs if she appeared useful.

"I'm… having creativity problems."

"You are blocked," she stated, grinning softly. "Perhaps I should not help give you ideas about Tommy and Lisa then."

The despair on his face made her drop the teasing.

"Where are you stuck?" she inquired, perching on the edge of his desk.

"Tommy and Lisa are in a warehouse," he began. "I need them to escape without being seen, but Tommy needs to be injured."

"Tony is clumsy," she noted, semi-helpfully. "If we were escaping from a warehouse, I would bet he would fall over his own feet."

"My characters aren't based on you…" McGee began his familiar disclaimer again, but Ziva ignored it. His eyes were smiling – she had helped.


	21. Feb 21

_**Feb 21  
><strong>_I'm glad I don't have to explain to a man from Mars why each day I set fire to dozens of little pieces of paper, and then put them in my mouth.  
><strong>Mignon McLaughlin<strong>

Abigail Scuito was furious.

None of her Rules and Gibbs' Rules were the same, with the exception of Rule Thirteen. _Never ever involve lawyers_. She suspected he hated them more, but only just.

Lawyers annoyed her. They were always trying to poke holes in her results, never seemed to understand the most basic science, and insisted she went to court in a monkey suit. They did not seem to care that she got nervous – as long as she helped _them_ (she could never persuade them successfully that her duty was to the court, not to take sides in a match between two fancy lawyers).

And now some fancy hot-shot JAG lawyer had decided to check she knew her job. No one else was stupid enough to ask her how she obtained a DNA match and with good reason.

"I started off with PCR, okay," she continued her rant. "This involves denaturing the strands of DNA with heat, then cooling them to allow the primers to form hydrogen bonds with the ends of the target sequence, which is the DNA I wish to amplify. This was then extended by DNA polymerase adding nucleotides to the end of the primer. Do you wish to know how many times the machine repeated this procedure? Thirty times! Do you need to know how long it took? You can sit there while I run another one and then and _only_ then can you come to me and question whether PCR was the best and most accurate scientific method for this procedure. Until you have a degree in forensic science, you cannot come into my lab and question my results! I don't have a fancy law degree and you don't see me telling you how to do your job."

As she continued, she hoped no one would be silly enough to lead a lawyer to her lab again.


	22. Feb 22

_**Feb 22  
><strong>_We should be eternally vigilant against attempts to check the expression of opinions that we loathe.  
><strong>Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr.<strong>** (1841 - 1935)**

Jennifer Shepard was not happy.

Scratch that, she was sorely tempted to hunt down the man responsible for her foul mood and castrate him.

Part of her job involved informing the general public about NCIS. It helped with recruitment into both her agency and the Armed Forces, gave them a higher allocation of financial resources, and hopefully kept public opinion on their side.

Except when a certain silver-haired ex-marine went around punching reporters.

She was adult enough to know that not everyone was going to agree with her opinions, and she did not waste her energy trying to convince everyone to see the world her way and her way only. But what she could not handle was people suggesting her viewpoint was insane.

Well, she could handle it in a way. She was entitled to her opinion and other people were entitled to theirs. She certainly thought some people were completely insane. What she couldn't handle was the newspaper in question calling on her to resign because of her opinion.

The opinion in question did not directly interfere with her job. There were checks in place to make sure she couldn't take complete control of the Agency and force her agents to do whatever she wanted, and anyway SecNav had an annoying habit of insisting on being briefed on the most trivial things.

All she had said was that TV talent shows were pointless, infantile and existed solely to increase certain individuals' bank balances.

Apparently this made her 'completely out of touch with the vast majority of Americans' and therefore she was unsuitable for a job which involved investigating criminal offences. What was the world coming to when she was not allowed to have an opinion that did not directly correlate with everyone else?

She shook her head and continued to fume. Sometimes there were advantages to having a friend who was a Mossad operative…


	23. Feb 23

_**Feb 23  
><strong>_Riches cover a multitude of woes.  
><strong>Menander<strong>** (342 BC - 292 BC)**, _Lady of Andros_

Tony DiNozzo groaned as he stared at his bank balance.

Part of him knew it was a bad idea to check it online at work, but Gibbs had just left for Autopsy and Ducky had a habit of keeping him down there for a while with his long-winded explanations and his love of tangents. And Gibbs couldn't work a computer to save his life. He could always claim this site just appeared when he opened his browser to do some work-related research.

What mattered most right now was he did not have much money. Perhaps ordering those DVD box sets the other day had not been his best idea, but he needed to increase Ziva's knowledge of the television shows he had grown up with. How could he have a discussion with her about them while on stakeout if she did not have a clue what he was talking about?

"Damn money," he grumbled. "Why does my father have so much of it? Or think he has so much of it. What's he going to do with it? Get married again? At least I spend it on useful things. Damn father, cutting me off."

A paperclip whistled past his ear and he looked up from his computer screen to see Ziva glaring at him.

"Are you finished feeling sorry for yourself yet?" she asked.

He nodded, not wanting to risk another paperclip in his general direction.

"It is preferable to be a better person than to be rolling in money," she informed him, before returning to her work.

He cocked his head to one side and began to consider this. Perhaps she was right, but he'd still prefer the money.


	24. Feb 24

_**Feb 24  
><strong>_Bad is never good until worse happens.  
><strong>Danish Proverb<strong>

Ziva David had been through many difficult experiences in her life, first with Mossad and then with NCIS. She had watched her sister die, she had watched her friends die and she had killed her own brother.

She knew better than most people that the world was full of pain and suffering. She was familiar with nightmares so vivid she never wished to sleep again, and knew the stress of being constantly on alert for any danger. She understood what it felt like to bury your friends and wonder why you had been spared instead of them.

However she appeared on the outside with her ice cold exterior, it was merely a defense mechanism. She felt loss keenly, perhaps more than most as she had seen so many die. But she could not afford to show this weakness; it could get her killed.

Despite the darkness that filled every crevice of her life, she refused to bow to it. She pushed away the dark thoughts as best she could, knowing things could always be worse. Far better to focus on the positive – she was still alive, breathing, in no immediate physical pain – than to worry constantly about the negative past when she could not do a thing to change it.

She closed her eyes and breathed in the fresh air. Everything was good, she told herself. After all, things could always be worse.


	25. Feb 25

_**Feb 25  
><strong>_A preoccupation with the future not only prevents us from seeing the present as it is but often prompts us to rearrange the past.  
><strong>Eric Hoffer<strong>** (1902 - 1983)**, _The Passionate State of Mind, 1954_

Ducky observed his young assistant out the corner of his eye as he examined Petty Officer Yates' leg. Nasty bite from a wild animal; infection was probably cause of death.

Mr. Palmer had been distracted for days. At first it had been little things giving him away – handing over the wrong implement, taking a moment too long to reply to a question. But then it had become more noticeable, with him forgetting the very question he was asked or leaving the room for something and forgetting what he was supposed to be collecting.

On the surface, there was nothing that should be bothering the young man. He had no exams coming up. His grades were excellent. He was supposedly planning a poker night with Jethro's team, and as far as Ducky knew everything was going well.

"Mr. Palmer," he sighed. "You are looking at the wrong leg."

"Sorry, doctor."

Ducky stared at the young man for a moment, before putting down his scalpel. "What is bothering you?"

"It's nothing," his assistant protested.

Ducky gave him a long look, a mixture of exasperation and understanding. He watched as Mr. Palmer took a deep breath.

"You see, doctor, it's like this."


	26. Feb 26

_**Feb 26  
><strong>_If you can't go over, you must go under.  
><strong>Yiddish Proverb<strong>

"This was a stupid idea, Tony," Timothy McGee mumbled.

"Shut up and keep digging," Tony ordered.

Tim thought this had to be bordering on insanity. The FBI had stolen their crime scene – a rustic farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. An SUV probably filled with agents blocked the only entrance to the property. And their fearless leader had decided he needed part of the farmhouse searched again.

Or rather Abby had flicked through the crime scene photos and noticed a safe everyone else had missed. It needed searching. Preferably before the FBI spotted it and took whatever was inside, which could be crucial to their case.

The farm owner had been ever so slightly paranoid. That was Tim's only explanation for the ten foot high chain-link fence that surrounded his entire property. Not to mention the barbed wire on top. The agents had not needed to talk to agree going over it was not in their best interests.

Tony, being Tony, had decided digging a tunnel was the best idea. Tim had to confess there weren't many other options. But Tony was digging so slowly he might as well wait for the wind to erode a gap under the fence.

"I'll tell Ziva you're a weakling," Tim threatened.

Unsurprisingly, Tony began to dig faster. "She won't believe you," he countered.

"She could dig faster than you."

"Yeah, because our Mossad hunting dog has magic powers."

Tim shot him a glare, but it was lost in the flurry of activity between them.

"So," Tim began. "How are we going to avoid the FBI once we make it to the house?"

"I'll think of something," Tony promised.

"That's what I'm afraid of," Tim muttered under his breath.


	27. Feb 27

_**Feb 27  
><strong>_Fiery colors begin their yearly conquest of the hills, propelled by the autumn winds. Fall is the artist.  
><strong>Takayuki Ikkaku, Arisa Hosaka and Toshihiro Kawabata<strong>, _Animal Crossing: Wild World, 2005_

Ziva David was not an artist.

Unless she used Tony's description of her as an artist of death, but she felt that was unfair. She was simply doing her job.

Using McGee or Abby's versions of 'artist', she was not one. She could barely hold a pencil in the correct way to draw, although she could hold it in a way to use it as a deadly weapon if someone threatened her.

Perhaps the painting class had been a bad idea.

But she was enjoying herself, and she felt that was far more important than whatever art she produced. She tried to stay away from death and dying in her paintings; there was too much of that in her life already.

Surprisingly, she found she enjoyed painting landscapes. She did not mind whether these were from her memories of her homeland or places she had visited, or whether she started her car and drove somewhere stunning. Landscapes reminded her that whatever evil things people did to each other, the world survived. Even if the human race wiped itself out, the world would continue to turn and grow more beautiful every minute.

She kept her painting a secret from her friends. While she knew they would be happy she had found something that pleased her so, she was not sure how they would otherwise react. Tony would laugh for a month, of that she was certain.

She smiled as she surveyed her latest creation. It needed a little work, but it looked beautiful.


	28. Feb 28

_**Feb 28  
><strong>_Life is tough, and if you have the ability to laugh at it you have the ability to enjoy it.  
><strong>Salma Hayek<strong>

"Yes!"

Abby Scuito grinned and punched the air as the final result of the day came through. A perfect result, exactly what Gibbs was hoping for, though she never produced results on demand – her only concern was the science. But she had her result, Gibbs would have her result as soon as she emailed it to Timmy, and her day was officially over.

To celebrate, she began to dance around her lab, catching Bert up as she passed and whirling him into the air with her. She laughed as they executed a difficult dance around her lab, making sure to pass every one of her babies so they would not feel left out.

As she finished her circuit, she hugged Bert tightly to her chest, avoiding the spikes of his collar from habit. Today had been a good day and it deserved to be celebrated. Today her babies had worked flawlessly, excluding the Major but he was a tricky case, and she needed to express her joy to the world.

She sank down into her chair, physically tired but her mind still active. Hugging Bert tighter, she talked to him. He always listened to her and understood her completely.

"A very good day," she told him solemnly, before bursting into giggles.

He stared at her dispassionately, but she knew he felt her joy. She continued to giggle with him. Everyone needed to enjoy their days in the same ways she did.


	29. Feb 29

_**Feb 29  
><strong>_It's hard to take over the world when you sleep 20 hours a day.  
><strong>Darby Conley<strong>

Leroy Jethro Gibbs stalked back into the squad room, fresh cup of coffee clutched in his hand, and glanced around his bullpen. He had forbidden his team from leaving until they'd completed the paperwork on the Avery case.

Ziva and McGee were missing. No surprise there – the two of them had been slaving away all afternoon in an attempt to leave before midnight; they had probably dumped their files on his desk and fled before he could assign them more work. Earlier, he had watched them labor away as he had slowly but surely completed his own paperwork, glancing up from his computer screen every now and then to keep an eye on everything.

That DiNozzo was still in the squad room was no surprise either. The young man had been playing around all afternoon, delighting in distracting his teammates. No amount of headslaps or glares or offers from Ziva to disembowel him with a paperclip had affected him. Even the arrival of Jenny had simply led to DiNozzo staring at her legs and earning a headslap from her.

Now he was asleep on his desk. Despite the situation, Gibbs allowed himself a smile. Clearly he needed a nap. And anyway, everyone knew Tony did his best work at night.


End file.
